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Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR

Freshman - 2,405 Points (A Collection of Select Works... / The City That Never Sleeps)

Upon The Harbouring of Death Within You...

With a bristle of grief, you gently
lift the pine dutch door
by the cold, brass handles
of this lifeless box,
but only because within it sleeps
the one who understood you, and-
the chaos that cobwebs your hemispheres,
those delphian orbs and Seraphims
that whisper into that empty space,
incarcerated by Life's splintered cross.
And gone now, be the only
who loved you, stood by you through it all;
a maternal love that bore no exception or limit.

Who will care for me now, you asked,
though your answer is lost in your question.
'The service and burial too much to manage'
read the institutions admission report.

I miss you, son, -an old voice murmurs
as you lay in quiet confusion,
staring up at the ceiling
from your strapped-down position,
studying...the vericose veins
of the plaster cracks
that suddenly remind you
of road-maps and boundries
of memories and places....,
traveled in time-
just for a moment,
and once again, you're gone.

Affixing sybilline eye-pose,
you present queer expressions
from the great distorted images
harbouring deep within your brain,
pricking your spine by the nerve-ends
like a seamstress darning a needle;

And you remember something like that
as you segway into another place
where your mum would stand over
the kitchen stovetop flame,
'fore she'd take the metal tongs,
pinched the needle at its head,
said, 'mummy could never hurt you';
now I need to see that finger
and pull out that splinter.
Oh! Mummy, it burns! It burns!
So hot... flame stinging hot, it was
thwarting like a matchstick tip
one just freshly struck....
so effectingly that your tongue
sensed the sage-smoked sulfur
with Mummy's every stroke
'til her job completed with a hug
and kiss, atop a slice of key lime pie.

Who will know where the needles are,
you ask the early years of your mind.

NO-ONE! - says the Modigliani-
hanging on the pale green wall,
a stunning sleek woman staring
with cold, white sockets... darting.

She's with the sleeping now
where all good mothers go,
and thats how love in Death must be
beyond the pine, outside the crypt...

[And the distorted images yet to come]

as you attempt to exist within the space
that narrows all too disturbingly,
..........upon the harbouring
..........of sickness...in Death.

- - - - - - - - - - -
Frank J. Ryan, Jr.
Copyright © 2013
All rights reserved
- - - - - - - - - - -

Submitted: Monday, July 07, 2014

Topic of this poem: death

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